


Anamnesis

by bakedgoldfish



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s04e01-02 20 Hours in America
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-02-15
Updated: 2003-02-15
Packaged: 2019-05-15 04:47:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14783847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakedgoldfish/pseuds/bakedgoldfish
Summary: "You tell yourself it's a tabula rasa."





	Anamnesis

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**Anamnesis**

**by:** Baked Goldfish 

**Category:** Leo, post-ep, Leo-fic  
**Rating:** TEEN (nothing that's not in the show)  
**Summary:** "You tell yourself it's a tabula rasa." PostEp  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own The West Wing. No copyright infringement intended. Please don't sue me.  
**Spoilers:** Twenty Hours In America, slight one for Bartlet For America  


"I'm taking Sam home." 

You look up at the sound of your daughter's voice, and see her in that green dress she'd shown you earlier that week. "Okay," you say, and your breath catches when she smiles; she looks like her mother, in the semi-darkness. "Gimme a hug?" 

Sam has the presence of mind to shift uncomfortably and look away - you wonder how he's still standing as your daughter wraps her arms around your shoulders. "Night, Dad," she says, and you kiss her cheek quickly before she pulls away. Her hair looks vaguely mussed, like it used to after she came home from swimming lessons when she was much younger, and you smile tightly as they leave. 

It takes a few moments before you realize you can take your bow tie off. It's strangling, and you wonder why Margaret tied it so tight tonight. It's late. You wonder where Margaret is. 

Speak of the devil. "Admiral Fitzwallace and Dr. McNally are here," she says, stepping into your office, startling you. 

"Send 'em in," you say. 

"I'm sorry you couldn't watch your smutty cooking show," she says quickly, and you yell at her to get out after she's already gone. You smile to yourself, the way you do every time she makes a bad joke or weird comment. The radio on her desk is playing a song you knew years ago as she ushers your two compatriots in. You can hear her getting her shutting down her computer, and you figure she's going home soon. 

"What do we know?" you ask, tersely. 

"No 'hello?'" Nancy says. "No 'how are you?' No 'how's it going, old friend?' No gracious offers of food and drink?" 

You don't blink. "What do we know?" 

She relents. "Can't be sure yet, but we're thinking Qumar's gonna try and blame Israel for Shareef's disappearance." 

"Tell me something I don't know," you say. You sigh, and unbutton the top button of your shirt. "No news on the pipe bombing?" She shakes her head, and you nod once before looking at Fitz. "What're you doing here?" 

Before Fitz can say a word, Nancy says, "Admiral Sissymary didn't have anything better to do." You unsuccessfully attempt to suppress a smirk when he glares at Nancy, and when that glare is turned onto you, you shrug helplessly. 

"I'm leaving," Fitz says in what almost passes for a whine. "Unappreciated on one side, unsupported on the other." 

"Leo's just smart," Nancy says to him, following him out. "He doesn't want to get on my bad side, so he shuts up. You, on the other hand-" 

Their voices fade as they walk off. A weird, insecure part of you that you thought had disappeared in the fourth grade wonders where they're going, and whether you're invited too. You wonder how they can seem so flippant after talking about assassination and war, and it strikes you that you probably come off the same way. It's been thirty years since you promised yourself you would never be the person you seem to have grown to be. You rub your eyes. It's late. 

Margaret comes in. "Toby's on line one," she says. 

"Where are they?" you ask as you pick up the phone. 

"Their flight was delayed," she says before leaving again. You nod and put the phone to your ear. 

"Leo," Toby says; his voice is quiet, distant, and seems to be breaking up. "We're about to go to the airport." 

"Okay," you say, dumbfounded. "You're calling to tell me just that?" 

"How did, how did the speech go tonight?" he asks. He's ignored you on purpose. 

You tap a pen cap absently against the desk blotter and answer, "Sam took care of it. It was good." You can practically hear him rubbing his hand across his scalp. "When'll you guys be in?" 

"Five-ish," he says. "Hang on, Josh wants to-" There's a subdued shuffling, and muffled voices as the phone is passed to another. 

"Josh?" you ask. "Hello?" 

"Leo, hey," Josh says. "We're about to leave for the airport." 

Dumbfoundedness turns into cynicism, and you ask, "Are you gonna get Donna on the phone to tell me that, too?" 

Josh ignores your question the same way Toby did. "Why are seventy-six counties in Indiana exempt from Daylight Savings Time?" 

"Just to screw with you," you say. "What else do you want?" 

There's a longer pause than what you'd like. You imagine him raking his free hand through his hair when he says, "What happened today? What, we saw on the news about - what happened?" He sounds like any number of regular people who don't have access to the most up-to-date information on this, regular people who, at best, must watch CNN and must know next to nothing and must just be scared. Then you realize that, for tonight at least, he is one of those regular people. 

"You know as much as I do," you say honestly. 

"I-" He sighs, and it sounds like static over the phone. In your mind's eye, you see him taking the same posture as his father used to sometimes: one hand splayed on his hip, shoulders swung back, jaw clenched. You remember Noah, and you remember swimming with Noah in the university pool. You remember watching him from the stands at swim meets, and you remember the crowds. Then, you remember the metallic smell of blood. The pen cap you are tapping on the blotter stumbles out of your hand. 

"We gotta go," Josh says, and his voice brings you back to the present. 

You grab the pen cap before it can roll to the ground. "When you get here," you say, "Go home and get some rest. Tell Toby and Donna to do the same." 

"Yeah," he says in that way that means neither he nor the others would even consider playing hooky. "We had a good day today. Out here, I mean. We talked to people." 

You hear the earnest quality in his voice; with a nearly invisible smile, you say, "You gotta go, Josh." 

"Yeah," he says. "We'll see ya." He hangs up before you can say goodbye. 

Margaret comes back in. "Can you catch things?" You stare at her, and she rolls her eyes and produces a videotape from behind her back. "Catch," she says, throwing it to you. 

You look at the tape in confusion. When you read the label, you laugh, surprised. "You taped my show?" 

"You looked despondent," she says. As usual, you have no idea what she's talking about. "I still say it's soft porn." 

For a moment, while she's still looking at you and you're dumbly turning the tape over in your hands, you forget yourself and all the crap that's happened throughout the day, and you smile. "When did you have time to do this?" 

She almost sneers. "I have my ways." 

You take that at face value, and shake your head. "I don't remember asking you to-" 

"I knew you wouldn't be happy until you got your soft porn," she says. "A man just can't survive without his soft porn." 

"Would you stop calling it that?" you say, really only half annoyed. "It's a cooking show." 

She raises her eyebrows at you. "Just wait 'til you see what she does to the summer squash." 

It takes you a moment to be able to speak again. "This conversation-" 

"-stops now," she finishes with an apologetic wave. "You're finished for the night, by the way." 

Exhaustion hits you hard, and suddenly. It's been a hell of a day, and a hell of a night, one of the worst in your long-stretching and sometimes fuzzy memory. Your hands stop playing with the tape, and you look at Margaret somewhat ruefully. "I can't believe it's only Monday." 

She blinks in confusion and shakes her head. "It's like two in the morning, Leo. It's Tuesday." After a moment of looking at you, she adds, "It's late. You should go home." She leaves, and you hear her getting her things together. You hear the radio turn off, and you hear her heels hitting the carpet, muffled, as she walks away. 

It's Tuesday. You lean back in your chair, slouching in a way that Margaret would hate, and tap the tape gently on the edge of your desk. It's a new inning. It's another chance to try and make the world a little less screwed up. Even though in the back of your mind you know that this new day will bring problems from past and future both, you tell yourself that yesterday is over. You tell yourself that it was yesterday when the stock market crashed and you misplaced two of your senior advisors and forty-four people were murdered in one fell swoop, and that today will be different. You tell yourself it's a tabula rasa. And on your desk is a framed, wrinkled napkin reminding you of that first clean slate of a day, nearly five years ago - your own three words strike out at you clearly, and you smile, remembering yourself. 

You rub your eyes. It's early. You go home. 

-end- 


End file.
